


Unintended

by Sister of Silence (Orcbait), vividwings



Series: Ars De Esse Parenti [3]
Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Family Drama, Insecurity, M/M, Male Slash, Suggestive Themes, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-08 09:44:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orcbait/pseuds/Sister%20of%20Silence, https://archiveofourown.org/users/vividwings/pseuds/vividwings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say, it is fate. They say, it is in the genes. They say, it is a curse. They say, it is a gift.</p><p>Constance Dorn had a bright future ahead of her and a loving family to share it with in this golden age of Mankind, for the years of the Great Crusade were years of celebration, of exploration, of promise, and legends were forged along its glorious path. Until her own legend started and turned out to be a nightmare, tearing everything she knew apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ars Silentia (by SisterOfSilence)

**Author's Note:**

> These loosely associated chapters are follow-ups to the original chapter about Dorn's daughter Constance in 'Children of Gods, Children of Men' by Vividwings:
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/709836/chapters/1378320

_And lo, she spoke: “Behold the handmaiden of the Lord;  
be it unto me according to thy word”_

1:38 Scriptures of Iterator Luke, M1; re-iterated ca. M32

 

 

His mind wandered, his thoughts flitting across reality as he observed the very fabric of the omniverse. Colours, patterns, possibilities; their meaning was difficult to discern even with his keen intellect. There was a sudden flash, a sensation of light and power and intent rippling through the ever-changing layers of the universe as if it were a stone that had been dropped into their always stirring waters. It had come from near one of his sons; from near one of whom he would have never expected such a manifestation. His mind drew itself back to his physical body, which had already begun to frown despite his absence.

It was quiet all around him, safe for the whistle of the wind and the rustle of the last autumn leaves. The air was cool, but then the air was always cool here. When he opened his eyes the world around him was as he had expected it to be. The sun hung low and would soon disappear behind the snowy mountain peaks skirting the ancient plateau on which the sprawling palace had been built. Already it’s slow descend had dipped most of the monumental building in shadows, the falling twilight creeping across the marble and gold. Soon, it would reach even here.

He rose. The muscles in his legs flexed stiffly and his joints ached briefly. He had lost his grip on time. He had sat for too long. The frown upon his regal brow creased deeper, throwing shadows of its own across his statuesque features as his thoughts lingered on the disturbance he had perceived. How had this been possible? No matter. There were roads to take, choices to make, and rather sooner than later. A catastrophe could be averted yet. He must act swiftly. He’d send her, and they would see.

  


\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  


It was not a summons, not exactly - not in any _literal_ sense. And yet she had long since learned that was exactly what the suddenly pressing sensation was.

She was a blank, a psychic null: ethereal phenomena ceased to exist around her. Although this was not to say that she could not perceive them, or feel them. She was not happily oblivious to the psychic layers around reality - quite the opposite. Regardless, the unique abilities of most psychic beings were snuffed out in her presence like candles in the wind. Most psychic beings, not all. She had been studying a scripture when it happened. It was as if remembering an important, pressing matter accidentally forgotten; a sudden clarity of purpose born of the certainty a task must immediately be done. She rose promptly and followed the call, her studies quite forgotten. Up many a stairway she hurried, until at long last she reached the sprawling garden glades at the very top of the palace.

He was here. She knew it with the confidence of someone that spent her life tracking down psychic beings, and with the certainty of someone well versed in the habits of another. He came here often, to do what it was he did. To think, she supposed. It mattered not: his business was his own and neither to know it nor understand it was her purpose. She scanned the plazas with the practised gaze of a veteran scout, searching as she trotted into them, the urgency of responding to his summons pressing against her mind to make haste. And yet his presence was so expansive; it was difficult to pinpoint his physical location.

She found him at the far, western edge. He stood among the marble statues that bore the likenesses of his sons, seemingly gazing out at the mountain peaks and the setting sun. Despite the late hour the ground around him was bathed in light, as if even the sun dared not cast its shadows over him. Tall and silent he stood, robed in pristine white and deep crimson, rivalling the celestial body in splendour. As she approached she could feel the palpable force he exuded press back against the meat of her placating mind. It was nothing physical, nothing so unsubtle. It was purely the sensation of a psychic strength too encompassing even for her to nullify it completely. It was uncomfortable, and yet soothingly familiar. It was the one mind that did not become a spot of blandness against the miasma of reality when she came near it.

When he turned to her, the sensation became stifling. She weathered it, the way she had been trained to weather such things, and she loved it, the way she loved nothing else. Never elsewhere had she felt such a presence, and she hoped she never would for such a thing would not be stopped by her, or her Sisters. Only he would be able to stop it. Fortunately, he would always be here to do so. She dropped into a silent obeisance, a knee to the marble and a hand to her knee. She said nothing for her vow of silence forbade her to. He took no umbrage at her lack of decorum, for it was an oath she had sworn to him.

He approached her as silently as she had him, the last rays of sunlight seemingly following in his wake. He knelt as quietly as she had and reached for her chin, lightly tilting her visage up to his. He caught her gaze – hers was one of the few whose mind would not be unmade by his own. Her blankness shielded her. She looked up at him, his proximity all but suffocating to her antipodal mind. His appearance shifted and flickered before her eyes: the regal visage of a warrior-king; the rigid gaze of an iron tyrant; the gentle sternness of a strict father; a man, old and tired, so very tired. 

In spite of her nullness, she felt the visions he shared as if they were her own. They comprised thoughts and memories, impressions and conjecture, shattered and scrambled like broken glass, tumbling one after the other in a sequence that made no sense. She could not grasp - could never understand – their full meaning for the complexity of his mind was leagues beyond her own. But she had learned, long ago, to glean information from these fragmented pieces: A thought of imminent danger, a memory of yellow power armour, an impression of a girl crying and a notion of a future failing. All this she learned in the instant her gaze was briefly lost in his.

+Find her+


	2. A Council of War (by Vividwings)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He had it coming" is sometimes a valid defense.

Rogal Dorn and Lorgar Aurelian had been arguing for over an hour.

The plan was not coming together. They had been trying to hammer out the details of the assault on twenty-eight fifteen, but argued over the most basic questions of how to address the conflict. The world was technologically advanced enough to have conventional missile weapons and a significant standing army. Such a world with a strong industrial base would be a great benefit to the Imperium, but they also possessed an unfortunate fondness for their local religion. A religion that had troubling qualities and rituals. A tang of darkness in its scriptures that could not be dismissed.

Lorgar advocated a measured approach, slowly acclimating them to the Imperial Truth through the Emperor, who he suggested could be made analogous with their local god until such a time as they were ready to accept the truth about their false gods and superstitions. 

Dorn would have none of that, and responded to their leaders with his customary bluntness. Thus, the war.

“I still believe that Deepstown is the best place for a first strike.” Dorn growled. They stood in a private council room on the Phalanx to argue. The only thing they seemed to agree upon was that some arguments should be private. It was a hard and utilitarian room, hung tactfully with the legion banners of both Primarchs. A few token chairs were pushed to the edges of the room.

“That is the seat of their religion.” Lorgar pointed out, for the fourth time. He concealed any impatience he felt well. 

The Primarch of the Word Bearers was dressed as he often was out of combat, in somber gray robes. He seemed less like a warrior and more like a monk. The only adornment he permitted himself were the golden tattoos that covered most of his exposed skin. 

“That’s why. Break the back of their superstitions in one solid swoop, and then march out from there.” Dorn gestured across the map with one massive hand. He wore the furred robes of his native Inwit rather than his golden artificer armor, though it was not out of preference like Lorgar- his armor was being repaired after the abortive first attempt at diplomacy. The thick fur collar of the robes bulked out his shoulders and draped over a black tunic trimmed in embroidered yellow designs. A carved jet skull was pinned among the fur trim. 

“They will defend it most fiercely because of their belief. We need to drain the defenses and the priests away from Deepstown before we strike-“

“What do the priests have to do with anything?” Dorn snapped. “They’re men in robes with a bit of charisma and a very old lie to back them up.”

“They may be psykers. I’ve said this before-“ Lorgar seemed as calm as ever, his hands clasped idly behind his back. 

“Psykers. Bah.” Dorn’s eye twitched as he leveled a suspicious glare at Lorgar. “Better deal with them first, if that’s the case. I don’t like psykers.”

Lorgar smiled, an expression that twisted his golden tattoos oddly. “I’m well aware.”

Dorn searched Lorgar’s face and focused on his smiling amber eyes. “Say what you mean.”

“I think you know what I mean.” The smile did not fade. “How is your daughter, by the way?”

Dorn’s twitch deepened. “She is well.”

“She must be lonely, with her mother gone.” Lorgar continued as if Dorn was not gripping the table until the metal creaked. “You have my condolences for both your losses. If my niece needs support, I would be more than happy to have her stay with myself and Leah for a time. Some company migh-“

The engraved border of the table crinkled under Dorn’s grasp. “No.”

“No? Very well. Some company besides that Sister of Silence would be good for her, I feel. She seems to be getting along very well with Leah.” Lorgar said lightly.

“We are not discussing this.” Anger thrummed through Dorn’s voice. His eyes never left Lorgar’s face. His icy glare would have stopped lesser men in their tracks, but Lorgar seemed immune. 

“Oh? And why not? Is your daughter not living up to your… expectations?” The smile turned into a worried look. 

“My daughter is kind, loyal, diligent, and none of your business. You will cease this line of questioning immediately and return to the matter at hand.” His eyes burned into Lorgar with the fury of a caged sun. And yet, his words rang hollow, the compliments empty. 

“Just because you don’t think her worthy of affection doesn’t mean I don’t either.” The smile was gone completely now, replaced by sincere concern and a shade of disapproval. 

Dorn removed his hand from the damaged table with fearful slowness and balled it into a fist. Suddenly his fist snapped up and at his brother’s skull. It connected to Lorgar’s cheek with a crack. He didn’t even have time to flinch. He staggered backwards, groping for the table and his face. Blood streamed through his fingers, staining his gray robes dark. Dorn bounded after him. His hand shot out and to grab his brother’s robes. With his other hand he kept up the assault. Again and again his fist pounded home in a terrible drumbeat of flesh on flesh that echoed around the room. Lorgar struggled to block the fury of his blows. Yet one after another slammed against his unarmored flesh and he was quickly forced to the ground. 

Pressing the advantage, Dorn leapt onto him the moment he was down. Firmly straddling Lorgar, Dorn pressed his knees on either side of his brother’s waist and continued his strikes. The punches never faltered. Lorgar feebly tried to block and struggle. He pushed his hips off the steel floor and bucked against his brother. He raised his hands to shield his face. Dorn was lost in his righteous fury, his blows pounding with rhythmic certainty on the smooth, hard shell of his brother’s ribcage. The crack of splintering bones punctuated the dull punches resounding through the room. Lorgar cried out, but Dorn showed no signs of stopping. 

\--

“I always forget how young you are, Leah.” Fulgrim noted, a kind smile on his features. “That you were born well after Lucrece. You haven’t heard this story, then? Of the pacification of the so-called Eternal Kingdom?”

Leah shook her head with an answering smile on her lips. “I forgive you for the mistake, uncle. We do not look so different once we are twenty or so. We inherited our fathers’ immortality after all.”

‘Not so different’ was a matter of opinion. Though they were cousins, the three seemingly young woman who trailed after Fulgrim’s leisurely gait were vastly different. 

The most striking of the bunch was Lucrece, who made the act of hurrying to keep up with a Primarch’s long stride seem graceful as she skipped along at her lord father’s right side. Her hair was down in a profusion of ivory curls that surrounded a face that would have been at home on a porcelain doll. Her curves, though, were hardly doll-like. Instead they were lush and inviting, tempting even the most steadfast man to touch them. She wore a silver bodyglove and a black jacket that showed off her figure well while still maintaining the impression of practicality. 

Leah, all but lightly trotting on his left side, was a slender young woman with dreamy eyes like pools of antique gold. Her faded pink dress complimented her coloring beautifully. The skirt reached her knees in a mass of chiffon ruffles. The sleeves were short and puffed, giving her the appearance of someone far younger than the other two cousins. 

The third cousin trailed behind them slightly with her head down, her gaze on the gound. She was pretty, in a gentle, soft way with eyes the color of overcast skies, like sleet. Constance’s gaze darted up occasionally to look upon Fulgrim with a certain wonder and the other girls with wary curiosity. She wore a long hooded cloak in black that fluttered around her as she walked and left her face in shadow. 

The black gown she wore underneath did little for her complexion or her figure. She was more voluptuous even than Lucrece, but the bodice of her gown downplayed rather than displayed that. Her eyes seemed large in her pale face, surrounded by dark circles and framed by lashes so pale as to be invisible. Ash-blonde hair was pulled back in a severe braid woven with black ribbons. Her earrings, the only visible jewelry she wore, were small jet beads. The only concession she made to wearing her legion’s colors was a yellow satin sash that stood out harshly around her waist. 

The traditional mourning period for her mother was nearing its end, but she did not think she would shed the black any time soon. The wounds were still fresh and always would be, like bruises just below the surface. Mourning garb gave her excuses to avoid going out. Still, when Uncle Fulgrim came by to personally invite her to the war council, there was nothing she could do about it. 

“It reminds me of this campaign in some ways. Both are likely to be tragic businesses, but that is the nature of war… Ah, here we are. I’ll have to tell you the story later, my dear. Possibly when Lucrece has found others to entertain herself with, I’m sure she doesn’t want to hear it again.” Fulgrim laughed, a sound that brought involuntary smiles to all of their faces. 

Constance shivered even as her lips curved upwards. She hugged herself to make the shivering go away. She should have declined to come, this couldn’t possibly end well. An ominous presence lingered behind the door ahead of them. It smelled of blood, and heat like a roaring furnace. War smelled like that, she knew. It made her even less inclined to pass the door. 

“Father, you could be talking about logistics and I would still find it fascinating.” Lucrece chirped back with a toss of her hair. 

Fulgrim ruffled his daughter’s hair with a fatherly smile. Their devotion to each other trickled in around the edges of Constance’s consciousness, warming her heart even as she felt a pang of jealousy. He seemed to notice Constance’s disquiet just as he was about to pull the doors open. “Are you all right, dear?”

She nodded quickly and dropped her arms. “Yes, uncle, I’m quite well. T-Thank you for asking.” Her voice was barely more than a breath. 

Fulgrim smiled indulgently and put a hand on Constance’s arm. She tensed suddenly, though he didn’t appear to notice. Even through the silk of her sleeve, the tingling of a psychic connection began to form. It was a sensation like a small electric shock. “Everything will be all right, my dear. You get to sit in on the war council- it will be most exhilarating.”

Constance gave a weak smile in return. She knew the only reason she was here was because Fulgrim had asked her and it would have looked odd for her not to come. All the cousins present were attending. She knew her lord father would have wanted her far away from the council, particularly with Arlette off on an errand. No one liked a psyker.

“Brothers, I brought your daught-“ Fulgrim stopped, his mouth hanging open.


	3. Interruptions (by vividwings)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fulgrim and the gaggle of girls walk in on something unexpected, Constance sees things she really wishes she didn't, and Lucrece begins a secret plot.

The scene before them was shocking, though in retrospect not unexpected.

Dorn straddled Lorgar’s hips, his knees securely planted and his hands wrapped around his brother’s throat. Lorgar had his fingers under Dorn’s hands, allowing him precious centimeters of breathing room. He struggled frantically, trying in vain to thrown Dorn off by twisting his hips to and fro, but Lorgar was one of the smaller Primarchs, slender and slight of build. Outside of his power armor, Lorgar was no match for Dorn’s muscled bulk.

Constance would have crumpled to the ground if not for her uncle’s arm to steady her. She despised her psychic powers at the best of times. They showed her far too much, none of it useful. Now, they painted the emotions of everyone in the room as clear as day, even the ones never meant to leave the shadows of the mind.

The most immediate was Fulgrim. The nascent psychic connection between them lit up like a live wire, warming the skin under his hand and sending a wave of adrenaline through her body. Shock prevailed, but something darker and slimier wormed its way up to the surface of his mind, dragging shadowy thoughts up with it. He probably wasn’t even aware of them yet, but he would be soon. With difficulty, she wrenched her perceptions away from him. The thin layers of cloth between them kept her safe.

Her father was a comforting presence even as he glowed with incandescent rage. Its aura surrounded him like the sunset glow of a magma river, slow and steady and all-consuming. She sensed glimpses of hate, grief, and thick veins of disgust amidst the drive to keep punching his brother until Lorgar was nothing more than a greasy stain on the plasteel floor.

“Aurelian!” Leah shrieked as she lunged forward. Her mind flickered between anger, terror, and a slowly dawning realization that stopped her in her tracks and opened a gaping chasm of doubt. Constance flinched away from the depths revealed there and cast her perception desperately elsewhere.

Lucrece grabbed onto her father’s other arm in shock. Confusion reigned in her case, followed by emotions that echoed her father’s. Her mind was always clinging and sweet and choking, and with her hands on Fulgrim it was that much closer to Constance’s perceptions. Unable to bear it any longer, Constance pushed herself away from her uncle and covered her mouth with her hands against a sudden wave of nausea.

Lorgar was the worst. Outside of Fulgrim’s overpowering influence, his emotions seeped into her mind as hard as she tried to fight them.  Pain, lots of pain, a smothered fear, and blatant desire. He was struggling, but he wasn’t trying to escape.

He was _enjoying_ this. The pain, his brother’s hands on him, the friction of his-

She squeezed her eyes shut and forced everyone out of her head. _I am calm, a dark pool in a peaceful garden. No wind ripples my surface, no waves disturb my depths. My walls are high and strong._ She pulled her mind back inside her body and opened her eyes just as everyone recovered their senses.

Fulgrim rushed forward in a blur of purple robes, so fast he was difficult to see. Dorn spared a punch to ward him off, which gave Lorgar the space to pry the other hand away from his throat. He took a desperate breath and forcefully shoved his hips against Dorn again. Fulgrim grabbed both of Dorn’s biceps and pulled him back, the side of his pale, perfect face bruising red from Dorn’s blow. The glitter of a migraine aura flashed in the corner of Constance’s eyes and the pressure began to grow inside her skull. Too many emotions, too many people, too many _Primarchs_ who projected so much more strongly-

Fulgrim held Dorn back long enough to let the slighter Primarch get up. +Disappointment. Relief. Desire. He sees Fulgrim’s eyes and he knows what is there. Opportunity.+ Constance’s power was slipping away from her again and she struggled to rein it in once more. Her father, she could survive his emotions. She turned her psychic senses to him. +Rage. Grief. Disgust. Vengeance.+ It was violent, turbulent like a storm, and yet comforting and familiar.

“Let me at him, Fulgrim!” Dorn growled, his eyes fixed on his brother. His expression flickered when Leah entered his vision. Her delicate little hands fluttered over her father’s bruises, straining her fingers crimson. She murmured words of concern and care and glared daggers in Dorn’s direction. Constance could still feel the deep cracks of doubt radiating from her. It was a dry feeling, a sudden thirst like pulling up a bucket of dust from a well that was once full. Realizing they were not alone, Dorn relaxed and Fulgrim tentatively let him go. He was as taut as a harp string but he did not lunge after Lorgar, who was now reassuring his daughter he would be all right in a harsh, dry voice, his breath labored.

“Constance.” Her father’s address never failed to stir up a mess of emotions. Warmth, comfort, self-loathing, fear. “I am sorry you had to see this- where is Lady Arlette?” His frown deepened.

“S-she had an errand to attend to, but my esteemed uncle asked me along with him so…” She said in the tiniest voice, shrinking into the background as much as her considerable height would allow.

“She’s safe enough on this ship, brother.” Fulgrim tried to reassure him.

“No, she’s not. Constance, return to your rooms and stay there until Lady Arlette returns, do you understand?” He growled. “You are not to leave unless Arlette or I tell you to.” Constance nodded mutely, her arms wrapped around herself.

“I’ll walk her back.” Lucrece volunteered, anticipating her own dismissal. None of the Primarchs liked having their children around when they fought.

“Fine.” Dorn snapped. Constance curtsied deeply and hurried out of the room. Lucrece mirrored the movement with considerably more poise and swept out after her, leaving the brothers to stare at each other in tense silence as Lorgar reassured his daughter that he was just fine, no matter the story the bruises told.

\--

Lucrece had to hurry to catch up to Constance, who was very nearly fleeing from the room. As Lucrece approached she reached out to put a hand on Constance’s arm, but she jerked away as if the older girl was burning. She clutched her arms and hands tight against her chest to protect them.

“Please, don’t, don’t touch me, it’ll just make it all worse.” Constance mumbled. The sinking pit of confusion and shame in her stomach was only growing larger and deeper and it showed no signs of stopping.  “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.”

“Just slow down, cousin dear, I can’t keep up.” It would take more than events such as these, it seemed, to faze Lucrece. “You’re not making any sense, that’s all.”

“I’m sorry.” Constance spouted out reflexively. Her eyes were downcast and her hands clenched and unclenched constantly against her chest.

“You don’t need to apologize, I’m just woefully confused. Is Lady Arlette the Sister of Silence who was with you during the arrival ceremony? I’ve never seen one away from the Emperor and the Custodes before.”

Constance nodded. “Yes. She’s been my companion since I was a child.”

“Does your father think some psyker is going to jump you? Why would you need an untouchable?” Lucrece tilted her head to the side, somehow managing to make even confusion look cute. “Do you know their sign language?”

“We use a variant of Astartes battle-sign. And yes, something like that. I can’t say anything more, I’m really sorry.” Constance shrunk away preemptively, expecting a rebuke.

Lucrece just shrugged and smiled, waving her hand like it was nothing. “Oh don’t be so timid, we all have our secrets. It’s part of being Royal! Emperor knows, I have _loads_ of secrets. By the way, do you mind if I stay with you until our fathers sort everything out? I had left my whole afternoon open for that council and now I have nothing to do until they stop brawling and sort out what I’m sure is just a misunderstanding.”

“Oh! Um, of course. My room is a bit of a mess, I don’t often get visitors...” Constance was put off balance by that and searched Lucrece’s face for a hint of deceit, and found none. She could open her mind and know for sure, but the idea made a shiver pass down her spine. Ignorance was better.

“Really?” Lucrece looked her up and down in a manner that made Constance uncomfortable. “I’m surprised. Your half-brothers aren’t the social sort, are they?”

“Half-brothers..? Oh, you mean the Legion. No, they aren’t. They don’t have the time or the inclination to interact with civilians. My lord father keeps them busy training, and what time they have to spare is spent with the iterators.” Constance replied, shaking her head. “

“Ah well. Their loss!” Lucrece said cheerily.

Constance had never thought of her company as something that one could lose. It was more something one had to endure. “I suppose?”

They approached the doors to her room quickly. They were unassuming, no different from any of the other doors on the hall, with only a pair of chapter serfs posted outside as guards. They snapped to attention as the ladies approached and Constance smiled a little. “At ease. Is Lady Arlette back yet?”

The one on the left, a wiry man in the sharp black and yellow uniform of the chapter’s guard, shook his head. “No, my Lady.”

Constance frowned and stepped inside the chambers, holding the door open for Lucrece and then closing it behind them. She swept off her cloak and hung it on the hook by the door.

The room was as she had warned, a bit of a mess. It was cozy, the right size for one person who did not take up much space. It was the same style of rooms that the captains were assigned, albeit with an adjoining room for the Sister of Silence and a more comfortable human-sized bed. A bookcase stood by the bed, along with a single comfortable chair. A desk sat across the room. Books were scattered on every available horizontal surface and there was a pile of laundry at the foot of the bed.

“Please, take a seat.” Constance said. The words were unfamiliar in her mouth. Lucrece chose to lounge in the chair and Constance perched on the edge of the bed. “So... Um, you socialize with your lord-father’s Legion?”

“Oh, yes. The Emperor’s Children are a civilized bunch, we like our fine conversation and art. I’ve always been on social terms with Vespasian and Eidolon and the captains. When I was a girl my father would bring me around to show me how the Legion worked. Julius used to toss me into the air and I pretended I could fly.” Lucrece smiled wistfully.

There was something both sad and hungry in Constance’s face. “Oh. The Imperial Fists are very efficient. They believe that socialization and art are things they shouldn’t distract themselves with. I mean, we have our chapter serfs who paint the murals and dedicate our halls, but they’re strictly servants of the chapter. So I don’t see the Captains or anyone really, unless it’s a formal function that I must be present at. Then First Captain Sigismund escorts me.”

“It must be lonely.” Lucrece remarked. “I’ve heard of Captain Sigismund. The Black Knight, they call him on the pits of the _Conqueror_ , or so I’ve heard. He’s supposed to be a swordsman that measures up to Captain Lucius. Do you know him well? What’s he like?” Lucrece winked. Constance wasn’t sure why.

 “I like it quiet. Too many people becomes overwhelming.” Constance replied after a long pause.  “I don’t really know him well, no. I know he’s brave and strong and doesn’t really like social events. He has a short temper with frivolity.”

“Oh, that’s only because you’re not used to it.” Lucrece smiled. “It’s a skill like any other, and you haven’t had any time to practice. The Captain probably hasn’t practiced much, either.”

“It’s not that.” Constance snapped, more sharply than she intended. “I’m sorry. It’s... it’s all just complicated. It’s better if I don’t get too many visitors. Not that I mind you! Not at all, it’s nice, it’s just... I have to be careful.”

“Why do you have to be careful? What is there to fear? The Phalanx is one of the biggest ships in the whole fleet. It’s bigger than the _Pride of the Emperor_ , though much rougher and utilitarian.”

“Lots of things. I can’t say. I’m sorry.” Constance folded her knees up to her chest. “Can we... Can we talk about something else?”

“Sure.” Lucrece did not look like she was going to let this drop any time soon, but was content to be quiet for now. “We should do something fun together, while our Legions are here. I’m going for a fitting for a few new gowns tomorrow. Father hinted I might need them. Do you want to come?”

Constance smiled. “Sure. Lady Arlette will have to come, but she’s good at not disrupting things and she’s really nice.”

“Of course. By the way, do you have a couturier?” Lucrece was trying very hard not to look judging. Constance felt the sting anyway and curled up tighter.

“No, my... mother used to handle that. She would make sure I got new clothes when I needed them, but... Well...” Constance looked down. She thought of her mother and her grief rolled off of her like fog.

“I’m so sorry.” Lucrece said, sincere sorrow on her face. Constance felt a stab of guilt as she realized she might have infected her cousin with her grief. “But why don’t we have Jillian look at some things for you, too? Your mother was a beautiful lady with perfect style, I’m sure she would approve of getting you in something nice. Maybe scarlet? Like your father’s cape? Ooh, stand up, I think I have some ideas.”

With a worried expression Constance stood while Lucrece paced around her, eyeing her figure with a critical eye. She felt vulnerable and exposed like an antelope being stalked by a leopard.

“Something more fitted through the waist would show off your body so much more. A low neckline with gold embroidery, a full skirt, maybe even some high shoes... You could have men hanging on your every word. I could introduce you to some fun ones.”

“I don’t really want men hanging off me. I like it when I’m not noticed. People who notice me ask questions.” Constance countered meekly.

“Yes, yes, just do the whole mysterious princess thing. If Konrad’s little daemon can get away with wearing a veil all the time and her father kills everyone who asks, I think you can get away with refusing to answer a couple questions, hmm? You like long sleeves, yes?” She reached out to run a hand along Constance’s arm, but stopped as she shied away and Lucrece remembered.

“And gloves. I didn’t have time to find them today, but I really need them. Hoods, too, unless it goes with my cloak. It has to be black, at least mostly. I am still in mourning. It can have some embroidery I guess, and a bit of yellow or red” Constance was torn between the fear of whatever dress Lucrece was concocting for her and the unexpected pleasure of having someone fuss over her again. In the end, the latter won out.

“Modest, then. You’ll need something to catch the eye with all that black, like a dramatic waist and a big skirt. Have you ever worn a corset? You’d look stunning in one. You’re like me, you’ve got the figure for it.”

“I don’t wear a corset. It’s impractical. Besides, it’s only purpose is attracting attention from men and I don’t want that.” Constance insisted.

“Of course you don’t.” Lucrece replied with a chuckle. “Just you wait until you get it, you’ll change your mind. Attention is a beautiful thing.” Lucrece grinned and settled back in the armchair with her fingers steepled.

Constance stared at her cousin with wide eyes and wondered what she had gotten herself into. A sudden knock on the door saved her from having to muster a reply. She walked over to the door and engaged the vox.

“Who is it?”

“The Lady Aurelian,” replied the guard outside. Constance swiftly unlocked the door and opened it. Leah was torn between so many different emotions Constance could barely keep her shields up.

“Please, come in.” Constance offered, feeling awkward. Leah swept in past her and threw herself in Lucrece’s arms, hiding her tear-stained face in her cousin’s shoulder.

“There, there.” Lucrece said softly, stroking Leah’s brunette curls with one perfectly manicured hand. “I am sure they were just bickering and it got out of hand. You know how siblings get.”

“He’s all bruised and hurt and, and-“ Leah seemed lost for words. “Your lord-father ordered me out, said they had to sort it out on their own. I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

“They were not hitting each other when you left, right?” Constance asked as she settled back down on the bed. How do you comfort someone when your father just pounded theirs into the floor of the ship?

“N-No, Lord Dorn wasn’t fighting anymore and father was sitting up.” Leah sniffed into Lucrece’s jacket. Constance mutely handed over one of her handkerchiefs. The jealousy reared its head again in Constance’s heart as she watched them. Leah had no doubts that her cousin would accept her and comfort her. The shimmering ripple of affection between them had no room for secrets other than the ones they shared together.

“There you have it, dear. They’ll all have made up in no time.” Lucrece nodded sagely as Leah wiped her eyes. “Now, why don’t we do something fun until they do? We could go on a tour of the Phalanx, or watch the men train- Constance, do you think you could show us where the men spar?”

 “I’m not sure they’d appreciate an interruption…” Constance replied with some hesitation.

“The Astartes should _always_ make time for their sisters.” Lucrece smiled that blinding smile that made everything she said seem like a good idea, even when it really, truly wasn’t. “Besides, we’re only watching, after all. There’s no harm in _watching._ ”


	4. And Then, Then It All Went South (by SisterOfSilence)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the escalated argument between Dorn and Lorgar, Fulgrim does his very best to have them both kiss and make up...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What, Constance? Imperial Fists? This fanfic is all about _Fulgrim_. Haven’t you heard it yet, the omniverse revolves around him. Not that thing at the centre of the milky way; that big, black, inescapable hole of... oh ---WAIT. _I see_... 
> 
> And Dorn, why is it so much fun to make you uncomfortable _all the time_? 
> 
> And Lorgar, why are you such a mewling little slut? 
> 
> Why did I write this? I claim innocence, and if anyone asks – I was drunk and the rabbit made me do it! D:  
> In the event you need Mind Bleach, it's right over there.
> 
> WARNING: EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT

When Fulgrim saw the smouldering fires in Dorn’s eyes roar back to life he immediately grabbed his infuriated brother, locking his arms under his broad shoulders in an attempt to keep him from leaping at Lorgar once more. 

“You filthy--,” Dorn growled at their pious brother, still lying where he’d thrown him. Dorn struggled against Fulgrim’s grip, but despite his genteel appearance the Phoenician was strong, his pale arms locked like iron vices around Dorn’s shoulder joints. 

“There, there,” Fulgrim soothed softly, holding his brother firmly in place. Dorn could feel his warm breath against his cheek.

“Let go,” Dorn growled, Fulgrim's proximity far closer than he wished it to be. However, the taller primarch seemed of no mind to heed his request. He shifted and, if anything, tightened his grip on him. When Lorgar propped himself up and onto his knees Dorn began to struggle anew, certain Lorgar was about to return his punches when he reached for him. Dorn’s angry snarl caught and died on his lips. 

Lorgar had slipped his hand into his brother's loose fitting pants. His touch was warm and gentle and surprisingly soft. Inadvertently, it dragged memories of his recently deceased wife up from the grave. Dorn roared in protest and Fulgrim struggled to keep him in check. 

However, Lorgar would not be dissuaded and braved Dorn's kicking legs to pointedly plant himself bodily between his brother's thighs. Despite Dorn's continued struggling, Lorgar seemed unfazed by the knees jammed into his sides. His hands slid across his brother's hips, slowly pulling the loose fitting pants down across his thighs. The gender within was disappointingly flaccid. The pout on the younger primarch's face at the discovery was positively ridiculous. 

“Let go of me, damn you!” Dorn growled, struggling still. “Damn you both to the Warp and back!” 

Fulgrim grunted when Dorn managed to jam an elbow into his ribs but only tightened his hold, using his not inconsiderable weight in an attempt to keep his brother put. Suddenly, Dorn froze, his gaze fixing on an undefined point in the distance. Slowly, a mortified expression crept onto his blunt features. 

“Feels good, doesn't it?” Fulgrim inquired, a broad smile unfurling across his lips as he glanced down from the corner of his eyes. Lorgar had leaned down, one hand securely on Dorn's hips and his brother's still flaccid gender in his other hand, his lips pressed against its length in a mimic of a kiss. 

Dorn shook his head in furious denial. He twisted and rammed a knee into Lorgar's side. Lorgar gasped, Fulgrim rolled his eyes and reached for him and Dorn both, and unceremoniously shoved his younger brother onto the other. Lorgar mewled, Dorn gasped and Fulgrim smiled broadly, evidently pleased. 

“You know, Rogal, you could also enjoy it...” Fulgrim mused beside Dorn's ear, keeping Lorgar firmly in place despite his weak struggling. Fulgrim glanced down at Lorgar and licked his lips at the way Dorn's length was becoming slick with the former's saliva. “Stop pretending you don't like it, you brat,” Fulgrim snapped at the younger primarch and shoved him closer still. Lorgar coughed and struggled and Dorn moaned despite himself. Fulgrim petted Lorgar's head soothingly. “I knew you would like it,” he mused, though it was not at all clear whom he addressed. Perhaps both. 

“That's better,” Fulgrim said encouragingly when Lorgar finally relaxed. His more slender hands moved across Dorn's hips, taking in the contours, gently touching and stimulating him as he took him in. 

“He is good at it, isn't he?” Fulgrim asked Dorn softly, his hand caressing Lorgar's cheek before dropping to Dorn's thigh. All he got for answer was a strangled down moan. Dorn’s hands had clenched into fists beside them and he savoured the press of his muscular arms bulging against his own. Fulgrim tugged him closer, pulling him all but onto his lap. 

Dorn did not want it, but pleasure built in his loins whether he liked it or not. Frustrated with himself, with his weakness, he tried to resist but his mind was slowly consumed by the sensations. By the memories they stirred. _Especially_ by the memories they stirred. When release jumped him, he was unable to fight it and his mind was briefly lost to his thoughts. He might have called her name. 

Lorgar sat back and leaned upon his elbows. His sober robes were torn and stained with his own blood. Bruises were beginning to discolour his fair skin. He leaned his head sideways as he looked at them, his amber eyes dark and hooded, a thin trace of fluid running from his slightly parted lips and dripping onto his broad chest. When he caught Dorn's gaze, he arched his back and spread his muscular legs further, displaying his erect gender. The golden scriptures were present even there, running across his inner thighs and circling his loins. 

“You did that,” Fulgrim hummed close to Dorn's ear, a meaningful nod to their brother's loin. He sounded pleased, maybe even amused. “You know what he wants you to do, do you not?” 

At Fulgrim's words Lorgar reached down to his own gender, a moan escaping him. He spread his legs further as he did so, his chin to his chest and his lips parted. He panted lightly. Fulgrim licked his lips, and Dorn curled them up in disgust. He struggled anew, but the Phoenician kept him put.

“You should not allow him to do that...” Fulgrim drawled, and when he suddenly let go of his brother's arms, Dorn stumbled forward. He did not give it a second thought and immediately lunged for Lorgar. 

“Stop that!” Dorn demanded a hand against the slighter primarch's throat as he slammed him down against the plasteel floor once more. Lorgar merely continued to touch himself as Dorn wrestled him down. Shocked and angered, Dorn grabbed his brother's wrists in a hand each and pulled them away. Lorgar arched up, pressing himself against him with a moan, his amber eyes hooded. 

Lorgar tugged at his wrists but Dorn's grip only tightened. When he pushed his hips up, his brother's expression broke, his grip momentarily weakening. Lorgar moaned, and did it again. With an angry roar Dorn shoved him away and wrestled him around onto his stomach, slamming his brother's head down against the plasteel with a force that would have concussed lesser men. Lorgar's lip split anew.

Dorn pressed a knee to Lorgar’s back when he struggled to get up, pinning him down as he none too gently pulled his arms behind his back. Lorgar whimpered, the mewling noise sending a disgusted shiver down Dorn's spine as he pulled his brother's wrists together behind his back. Lorgar struggled but could do nothing, his cheek, chest and loin pressed flat against the cold plasteel.

Dorn glanced around, holding his brother’s wrists together. His eye fell on the soft-spun rope Lorgar had tied his robes with and tugged it loose. Lorgar struggled underneath him, but Dorn simply leaned more of his weight onto his knee and kept his brother down as he tied his wrists. He pulled the rope tight, tying them close together and in a fashion not even a primarch would be able to slip out of.

“You should punish him for it.” Dorn startled. Fulgrim stood beside them, leaned down towards him and looking at him from the corner of his eyes. When he caught Dorn’s gaze, he smiled and held up a belt. Judging by the purple leather, evidently his own.

Dorn nodded grimly and took the belt. He knelt beside Lorgar, tugging his hands up almost painfully and exposing his back. Lorgar cried out when the leather snapped across his broad back, leaving red marks in its wake. Fulgrim shook his head and chuckled. “No, no...” he reprimanded softly as he reached for Dorn’s hand and adjusted it. When the leather snapped across the primarch’s firm rear his cries took on a distinctly different tone. 

Dorn’s frown deepened at Lorgar’s untoward reaction and hit him harder. The suddenly distressed yelp that extracted was oddly satisfying. The purpose of penance was to cleanse mind and body of impurities. Impurity of thought. Impurity of sensation. To enjoy it was... Dorn frowned disapprovingly and chastised his brother again. Lorgar struggled and whimpered, but certainly not of pleasure now. It clearly hurt. Good. It was supposed to. How else does one learn and repent?

“That’s more like it,” Fulgrim muttered encouragingly, lightly stroking Dorn’s arm. So engrossed he was in his task that he did not even notice. Fulgrim smiled as the snap of leather upon flesh engraved itself in his mind. He slipped from behind his bulkier sibling and gracefully knelt at Lorgar’s shoulder. He smiled down at him as he cradled Lorgar’s tattooed head in his pale hands. The contrast of porcelain to inscribed bronze skin was as beautiful and tantalizing as ever. Fulgrim glanced along Lorgar’s back to his bum. The coppery flesh had tinged a flushed red. It made the gilded scriptures stand out even more.

When Fulgrim looked back, Lorgar gazed up at him. His amber eyes were large and soft and a little moist. A minute more and Fulgrim was certain his bottom limp would start to tremble. He made an empathic noise and stroke his younger brother’s tattooed scalp the way one might a child.

“Don’t cry, little Aurelian,” Fulgrim cooed soothingly. “You know you deserve it. In your heart, you know this to be true.” Lorgar merely whimpered as he leaned his head into Fulgrim’s petting, dropping his gaze.

At first, Fulgrim’s smile broadened with fondness. However, when he saw where Lorgar’s gaze had dropped to, his smile broadened with something else entirely. He leaned down, a grin about his curved lips like a conniving thief. “That is not for you,” Fulgrim whispered to his brother’s ear alone, and Lorgar mewled in reply. “I know,” Fulgrim added as he petted him again. “It pains me to deny you, too.” The pleading look in those amber eyes was all but impossible to resist.

“Oh, very well then,” Fulgrim conceded in a tone that suggested he gave into the wiles of a child, rather than an adult man, let alone another primarch. The way Lorgar’s eyes lit up send a pang of pleasure like an arrow straight into Fulgrim’s loins.

Fulgrim’s elegant purple robes were of a loose snit, reminiscent of the classic togae worn by the pan-Europa empire’s nobility of ancient terra. When he shrugged it off his shoulders it bunched into the crooks of his arms and fell open, revealing broad shoulders and a statuesque torso above a flat abdomen and a whole lot more. Smiling still, he tugged Lorgar towards his lap.

“What in the Imperium’s name do you think you are doing?” Dorn’s voice rapped through Fulgrim’s thoughts like an unwelcome knock at the door. He tried very hard not to show his displeasure. Slowly, he glanced sideways and up at his disruptive brother. Dorn was standing beside him, glaring down at him, belt in hand. He actually had his fists on his hips. It looked ridiculous. And hypocrite. Judging by the tension in his previously loose fitting pants. 

Fulgrim suppressed a sigh and rose to his feet. No longer held prone in the uncomfortable position by anyone, Lorgar rolled onto his back. The plasteel underneath him was stained with blood and fluids alike. His loins too. Dorn stared at it with a look that held the middle ground between horror and revulsion.

Fulgrim patted Dorn companionably on the shoulder. “You did not really think I would give in to his lusts, did you?” he said unctuously.

“No. No, of course not,” Dorn replied, frowning most disapprovingly at their sprawled brother.

Fulgrim leaned down and grabbed Lorgar’s nearest ankle. He rose and tugged it up, lifting the bound primarch legs and ass off the ground. “He is inclined to being sinful,” Fulgrim said sagely as he gave the leg a tug. “Even Father knows it.” With his weight only upon his arms and shoulders, Lorgar squirmed and pulled back. After a moment of in vain struggling, he kicked his free leg at them. Dorn shied away from the limb as if it were poisonous. Fulgrim simply deflected it with a slap against the muscular calve. “Shush,” he admonished, and gave the leg another sharp tug. Lorgar somehow managed to stay quiet.

“I think he needs to be punished more severely,” Fulgrim said to Dorn, matching his brother’s frown effortlessly.

“But how?” Dorn huffed, and Fulgrim chortled inwardly at his brother’s gullible seriousness. It was too easy. 

“Like so,” Fulgrim returned, struggling to keep the glee out of his tone. He then put the index finger of his free hand in his mouth, and Dorn’s eyebrows rose in naive confusion. A half grin teased onto Fulgrim’s features as he leaned down towards Lorgar and, without further ado, pressed it into his dangling brother’s rear. Lorgar cried out beautifully at the unexpected intrusion, as Fulgrim had known he would. And definitely in initial pain, his amber eyes squeezing shut. Fulgrim couldn’t contain his grin now. Dorn’s expression was priceless.

“That’s... awful,” Dorn managed after what Fulgrim thought felt like an eternity of disbelieving staring. He was on edge, too, and the way his Lorgar’s insides clung to his finger did not particularly help. Dorn had spoken with the painful expression and strained voice of someone that had actively imagined it. Fulgrim moved his digit a few times, drawing whimpers and struggling from Lorgar once more. Already they were less pained in tone. Dorn didn’t seem to notice, yet. His gaze was transfixed upon Fulgrim’s hand. “It’s just punishment for his unsavoury desires,” Fulgrim replied on a tone as if he meant every syllable of it. 

Dorn nodded but slowly, his expression dubious.

Fulgrim tugged Lorgar’s leg to obscure the fact that he had tried to push against his hand. “I said quiet,” Fulgrim repeated sharply, drowning out Lorgar’s whimpers as he removed his digit. He then let go of the leg, unceremoniously dropping Lorgar back to the floor. The smack with which his bare rear hit the plasteel was a particularly satisfying sound. Lorgar cried out sharply upon impact as it was, undoubtedly, still rather sensitive. 

Dorn knelt in front of Lorgar, as Fulgrim had hoped he would. Lorgar struggled when Dorn roughly grasped a muscular thigh and attempted to kick him again. It was a token resistance – Fulgrim knew for a fact that their soft little brother could fight fiercely if he was motivated to. Dorn seemed not to notice. This _was_ too easy. 

Dorn pushed Lorgar’s thighs up and apart with the forceful purposefulness he did everything. The way Lorgar’s cry a moment later skipped up at least an octave reaffirmed this.

Fulgrim crouched behind Dorn, his hands on his shoulders. “That’s it,” he said encouragingly. “I am certain you can make him cry out louder yet.” Dorn nodded grimly, the gesture punctuated by a cry from Lorgar. An instep smacked against Dorn’s cheek with the force of a hammer blow, and he cussed as he pushed the wayward leg away from his face. Fulgrim leaned forward and grabbed Lorgar’s legs by the insides of his knees, melting his own body against Dorn’s broad back as he did so, and resting his head all but upon Dorn’s shoulder as he watched them. 

At the noises escaping his sibling, Dorn could not help but frown. Lorgar cried out in pain, and yet his gender remained erect. Could it be that the pain did not banish out his sinful desires? Pain was the catalyst of atonement. Perhaps, it was still not enough? He eyed the engorged organ suspiciously.

Fulgrim could tell Lorgar enjoyed it, despite his beaten mewling. He glanced down at them. Dorn’s hands were larger than his own, his fingers broader, calloused, and his actions too. Forceful, as ever. When Lorgar pressed his hips up against Dorn’s hand, a disgusted snarl escaped the latter that send a hot shiver down Fulgrim’s spine. Dorn scowled and flipped Lorgar around, onto his stomach once more, removing his soiled loins from sight. Dorn sat up on his knees, his fingertips digging into the flesh of Lorgar’s thigh and rear as he pulled him further up and pushed two fingers in with a force that strangled Lorgar’s anticipatory moan to a sudden death. 

Dorn’s expression was set, grim. Fulgrim licked his lips as he watched Dorn press his fingers in with a force that would leave poor little Aurelian sore for days to come. He enjoyed the prospect immensely. 

Fulgrim put his hands to Dorn’s hips, and when he did not react, Fulgrim realised now was the right time, if ever. He smiled, pleased at how well his plan was working out. Too easy. 

“I think,” Fulgrim suggested softly as his hands took in the shape of the hips underneath them, lamenting the cloth still there. “He still enjoys it.” 

“Impossible,” Dorn muttered through gritted teeth. 

“You know what you could do...” Fulgrim said as he slipped his hands into his brother’s pants, enjoying the touch of warm, soft skin at the creases of his hips. It would seem even Dorn was soft there. 

Dorn’s face paled when Fulgrim whispered his suggestion in his ear. 

“I do not want anything to do with such... practises,” Dorn balked. 

Fulgrim leaned over his shoulder, his chin all but rested against his brother. “Oh really?” he inquired, and his tone was surprised. However, his expression was not. “This says otherwise...” he purred as he touched his brother’s loins. Dorn gritted his teeth. No matter how much he tried to deny it, the touch was... it... it did things. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his face away. It dredged up a mess of emotions. None of which he wanted to feel. 

Suddenly free, and more importantly, deprived of stimulation, Lorgar twisted around, complaining whimpers on his lips. Fulgrim pressed an almost chaste kiss to Dorn’s cheek as he pulled the pants down. To his surprise, it glistened with fluid. Dorn avoided his gaze, the hint of a shameful blush suddenly colouring his cheeks under the smattering of freckles red. It made him look distinctly innocent. And it made Fulgrim want him even more. To have him, spoil him; soil him, as he had little Aurelian. 

“There’s no need to be ashamed, Rogal,” Fulgrim all but purred as he reached for his brother’s gender. It twitched in his grasp and Dorn’s hands clenched into fists at his side. Fulgrim touched it gently, expertly, and made sure it was slick enough. Lorgar was mewling like a little Achaemenid whore for attention. Still tied, there was nothing he could do but watch them. “It’ll be our little secret,” Fulgrim promised. He adjusted his touch and a moan wormed itself out of Dorn’s throat. Fulgrim delighted at the sounds his two brothers produced. They were completely at his mercy. As they should be. 

“Go on,” Fulgrim urged, and guided Dorn towards Lorgar, a hand pressed firmly to his lower back to keep him from balking. “You’ll need space,” Fulgrim suggested, and smiled as Dorn pulled their brother’s legs apart, enjoying the display. 

Dorn looked down at his brother, and there was unabashed eagerness in Lorgar's amber eyes. But when Dorn shifted to move above him, Fulgrim's chortle froze him in his tracks. 

“Really, Rogal? Like a lover?” Fulgrim remarked as he moved behind the bulkier primarch once more. He reached past him and put his hands over Dorn's, already fitted around Lorgar's more slender hips. Without any preamble he pulled them sideways, forcing a satisfying yelp out of the slighter primarch as he was all but flung around onto his stomach once again. “Better, don't you think?” Fulgrim asked softly, still guiding Dorn's touch, as he tugged Lorgar's hips up. “Or the friction will please him,” Fulgrim added when Dorn frowned severely, and the Phoenician's hands finally moved away to wander on their own, taking in the pale curve of bum before them. “And we wouldn’t want that, would we?” 

“No,” Dorn said grimly. 

When Lorgar whined in protest, Fulgrim slapped his still reddened bum, making him cry out. “Quiet.” He then glanced at Dorn. “Do it,” he said when Dorn hesitated. “He deserves it.” 

Dorn hesitated for a long moment. 

Lorgar’s pitched cry as his brother forced himself in made Fulgrim close his eyes and savour it like expensive amasec. This time, the slighter primarch went all but rigid, his long limbs trembling and his eyes squeezed shut. Water brimmed under the dark eyelashes. Below him, his unattended gender wept fluids like silent tears. Dorn continued with grim determination and Fulgrim sighed in delight as he watched them and reached for his own loins. 

Dorn gritted his teeth and pressed Lorgar down with a hand between his shoulder blades and kept his hips up with the other. Emotions and sensations roiled around within him. He did not mean to enjoy it. But it was so firm and warm and… strong… more than… he shook his head as if to physically shake the thoughts out of his mind. He focussed on his brother’s pained cries; his amber eyes now squeezed shut. He must not enjoy it. This was penance, for both. His brother would do penance now, and he would do so after. To atone for this… whatever it was. 

Fulgrim touched himself until he had wetted his fingers enough. He reached for Dorn and put his hands to his hips, sliding them to his rear, feeling the strong muscles there work under his hands. He began to slide his hand between the firm cheeks but then changed his mind. Dorn would balk, and then he would never have him. However, Fulgrim knew how his brother’s mind worked. He would give him pleasure he did not want, and then he would be the dutiful boy and accept his punishment, as he gave it to their brother now. 

With a satisfied nod to himself Fulgrim sank to his knees, kneading the firm ass under his palms before he spread it apart. A lengthy moment passed as he gazed longingly at the untouched entrance there. Then he leaned forward and kissed it. The distressed squeak it drew from Dorn was as music to his ears. He smiled against the soft flesh and pressed his tongue inside. 

Dorn’s knees all but buckled at the sudden wave of pleasure spiking through his body. He could feel it rise to his lips as if it were water about to drown him. His fingers dug into Lorgar’s hips as he forced himself into him while Fulgrim… did what he did. He moaned and leaned towards Fulgrim despite himself, his cheeks hot and red with shame. 

When he felt it was enough, Fulgrim stopped, and delighted in Dorn’s whimper and the involuntary jerk of his hips towards him. “There, there,” he shushed soothingly as he rose behind him and stepped in close. Fulgrim wrapped his arms around his broad chest and waist, and held him as near as a lover would, before glancing at him sideways from across his shoulder. Dorn’s cheeks were as red as Lorgar’s rear – a comparison that pleased him, for both were his doing. His alone. 

“Did you enjoy that?” Fulgrim purred, a hand caressing Dorn’s hip. “Are you having sinful thoughts now, too?” Dorn pointedly looked away. It was answer enough. “Did you not say such thoughts must be punished?” Fulgrim inquired as he reached for himself, and tightened his grip around Dorn’s waist. 

When Dorn did not reply, Fulgrim shook his head. “Let me show you how it’s properly done,” he said as he braced himself. The moment Dorn glanced across his shoulder, a ‘what?’ in his grey eyes; Fulgrim pushed himself into him with a smooth, practised stroke. The way his brother’s gaze broke – those stormy eyes fixed – was even more satisfying than Fulgrim had thought it would be. The strangled cry it tore from Dorn’s throat momentarily startled Lorgar into silence. Until Fulgrim pulled out and did it again, for then he moaned too. 

Fulgrim’s breath was laboured, the embrace even tighter than he had thought it would be. He groaned and gritted his teeth and forced himself in again. It was even tighter than their little brother had been. For a moment, he wondered if Aurelian--- no, he had said he had been his first man. The thought suddenly floundered. He moaned in ecstasy as Dorn’s reflexes all but throttled him, and more so when both his brothers cried out in pleasure when he bucked into him again. 

With a growl Fulgrim grasps his brother’s hips firmer, his slender fingers digging into Rogal’s bronzed skin. He pulls them both away with a groan. The unhappy whimper from Lorgar is enough to drive him back into the embrace. Even Rogal moans now. There is a song in Fulgrim’s ears, soft and lovely and so quiet he can barely hear it over his thundering heart and panting breath. It is like the rolling beat of doumbek and the alluring sway of ney at an ancient, Achaemenid pardaiza. But still more intense, more intoxicating. _Better_. It is his now, the melody of his heart in this moment of desperate desire and forbidden ecstasy. 

It was too much for Dorn to encompass, the emotions too strong, the sensations too intense. He wants to struggle and roar and fight and run away, and he wants to stay. This was wrong. He knew it with every fibre of his being. His soul bled. And his soul sang. And he could not hear himself protest over the sound of his own pleasure. It was wrong, but it _felt_ good. How could something so wrong, feel so right? How? 

Beneath them, Lorgar was lost in the sensation of it. It could be anyone, anywhere, he didn’t care. Rogal’s hands are hard and calloused against the smooth skin of his hips. His grip strong. And it’s exactly what he wants. It could be anyone, but there is something better about it when one of his brothers did it, something taboo and wrong and delightful. More so when his most beautiful of brothers orchestrated it. Fulgrim. He all but moaned the name. 

Fulgrims hands slide over coppery skin and every time he closes his eyes he sees the beauteous creature from his dreams. Until his brothers and the phantasm blend into one incredible, irresistible, unknowable vision of carnal perfection. Every gasp and moan he wrings from them feels like a victory. His nerves are aflame with desire and his soul cries out for release. A delight unlike any other shivers down Fulgrim’s spine when he hears little Aurelian whimper his name. This was it. How could there be anything better than this? How could anyone ever want more? 

_There is always more_ , purrs the voice in his mind. _Always and forever_. An improbably long tongue licks past full lips. And it smiles a smile that reveals serrated teeth as it whispers: 

_You want to hear it_ again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The switch of tense is deliberate, it's a shout-out to Viv's original chapter about Lucrece in 'Children of Gods, Children of Men' (see part 1 of this series). <3

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: A lot of time and hard work went into the creation and publication of this story and as such it is very dear to us. We would love to hear what you thought of it. And please, share this story freely but credit us and link back to us. Thank you!


End file.
